Chapter 109: Photo and Investigation

The old tailor and the boy stared at each other for a moment, then the tailor asked softly, “Mr. Lans, what do you want this child for?”

In truth, this “child” was older than Lans, but to the tailor, he was still a child—revealing, from the side, his protective feelings toward his son-in-law.

“The tailor shop. I need a manager, but I can’t trust anyone else.”

“Come manage this tailor shop for me—organize work, store goods, receive shipments, dispatch them—all of it. I’ll pay you a hundred a month.”

Both the tailor and his son-in-law drew in a sharp breath. A hundred a month was no small sum in their eyes—it could at least solve their current predicament.

They exchanged another glance, whispered briefly, then the tailor nodded and said, “This is your kindness. We have no reason to refuse.”

Lans shook hands with the tailor’s son-in-law. “I haven’t even asked your name.”

“Rode.”

“Mr. Rode, I expect you at this address tomorrow morning…” Lans wrote down an address, then smiled, “Now, let’s fix your clothes first.”

The new clothes fitted perfectly—after all, the tailor had once worked for nobility, a rare honor even in the Empire.

Each of the boys changed into their new outfits; the uniformity gave them an unprecedented sense of pride and unity.

Merro walked over, beaming in his new clothes. “Shouldn’t we take a photo?”

“I think this is a moment worth remembering and savoring!”

Lans considered briefly, then agreed.

Mo Lisi drove to pick up Er Wen—he had to be here for this important moment.

His recovery after surgery had been good enough; as long as he avoided strenuous activity, standing for a while posed no problem.

A photography studio stood right on the street. When the photographer arrived and saw these young men dressed in stern-looking attire yet all smiling, the stark contrast made him realize this would be a classic photograph.

Everyone crowded together, Lans standing at the center. Under the photographer’s direction, each took their proper place.

“Look here. When I raise my hand, say ‘cheese.’”

Ethan, uncomfortable in his tight clothes, whispered, “Why cheese? Why not ham?”

Er Wen turned and glared at him. “Shut up. Are you the photographer, or is he?”

Ethan rolled his eyes, faced the lens, and as the photographer raised his hand, every young face broke into a smile—the sudden flash of magnesium light illuminated them all, as if the light of an era shone upon them!

They took several shots, even brought over a chair for Lans to sit in, with the others standing behind him.

This time they didn’t stand so stiffly—but to the photographer, it gave off a strange, indescribable feeling.

Er Wen leaned against Ethan; Ethan gazed at the distant sky; Mo Lisi stared into the lens, holding a stack of playing cards.

Enio, with his one intact hand, made a pistol gesture, pressing it to his temple—he thought it looked cool…

Each displayed his own style. Lans pulled out a red handkerchief, shook it, and tucked it into his breast pocket.

He crossed his legs, hands resting on the armrests, leaning back slightly, gazing down at the lens with a hint of condescension—or even disdain.

The photographer behind the lens felt a faint prickling on his scalp, but he captured the moment at the perfect instant.

Passersby occasionally glanced at the scene, paused briefly in stunned silence, then moved on—but this image would linger in their memories for a long time, growing deeper with every replay.

Lans shook hands with the photographer, then handed him five dollars.

“Thank you for coming. When can we pick up the photos?”

“I mean—I want large prints, not those tiny ones you can hold in your hand. I plan to hang one in a room, ideally as big as a window.”

The photographer nodded eagerly. “No problem, Mr. Lans. I guarantee this is the best photo I’ve ever taken—I even think it could win a prize at the Lianbang Photographers’ Association!”

He sounded hopeful, but Lans declined. “It’s not meant to be proof of honor, is it?”

The photographer looked disappointed. “Yes, my mistake.” He paused, slipped the money into his pocket. “If you’re in a hurry, I can develop the photos quickly.”

Lans pulled out two more dollars and handed them over. “Then do it quickly.”

The tailor, smoking his pipe, glanced sideways at his son-in-law through the gap between his brow and spectacles—he could see Rode’s expression, as if he longed to join them.

Rode didn’t deny it. “They give me a feeling I can’t name. I think… this will become a legend.”

The tailor neither agreed nor refused, only warned him: “This might give you the life you want—or it might send you straight to hell.”

He had lived long enough to see too much. He knew exactly what these young men were doing.

He could not judge whether Lans and his group were right or wrong—every age had its own character, its own way of living. This was the Lianbang, not the Empire. He was an old man, not a young one.

He could no longer see the tide of society as he once had. All he could do now was offer his experience as a reference when Rode chose his path—like a stubborn reef left behind after the tide had passed.

He also knew he could not control Rode—could not forbid him, nor command him. He could only offer his wisdom as a guide.

Rode lit a cigarette. “But aren’t we already in hell?”

The chair was brought back. Lans walked over to them. “Excellent work. I’ve got some business these next few days. In a few days, we can talk about me funding your shop.”

“Considering you’ll be busy and your son-in-law won’t be around, if you’re willing, I can find some Empire-born apprentices for you.”

“I’ll handle all their problems. You just need to make them work.”

The tailor didn’t hesitate long. He agreed. “I’m old. One day I won’t be able to work anymore. I planned to pass my craft to Rode—but it seems he’s lost interest.”

He grasped Lans’s hand. “I have only one daughter. Rode is like my son. Please take care of him.”

Lans patted his hand. “I’ll take care of every family member.”

The tailor left soon after. Lans called Ethan over. “You know leather well. Go get us some shoes. No need for famous brands or master cobblers—but make sure we look respectable. Pay Merro for it.”

Ethan’s father had been a cobbler; he’d grown up surrounded by leather goods and understood the trade better than anyone else.

True to form, the usually silent Ethan gave a loud, clear, “No problem.”

Lans patted his arm, signaling him to get to work.

Merro walked over and stood beside him. “This all feels unbelievable, Lans. Everyone’s undergone a kind of baptism—we’ve been elevated, in body, soul, and spirit!”

“All of this… you brought it.”

Lans smoothed his hair—actually not messy at all. “Someone has to stand at the front and cut through the waves for us, Merro.”

“Rather than wait for someone else to do it, I’ll be that person.”

He paused. “We’ll likely have more companies later. I plan to split legal and illegal operations into two parts. Help me find someone trustworthy—preferably clean.”

“Of course, if you want to go to that side, that’s fine—but our connection here will need to weaken.”

Merro nodded solemnly. “Understood. I’ll find this person as soon as possible.”

At two in the afternoon, a police car pulled up outside the office. Two officers stepped out.

They wore sunglasses, surveyed the bustling office, and walked straight in.

“Is your boss here?” One officer glanced around, finally fixing his gaze on a girl at the front desk.

He removed his sunglasses, leaned against the counter, and tapped his fingers on the surface.

Lans had instructed them: if police came asking if he was in, tell them to go to his office.

The girl pointed them toward the back. They observed the busy work as they walked.

At first, they were casual—this job was a perk. They’d hoped to scare the boss into paying them off.

But as they passed the last few rooms, through a half-open door, they saw men in suits, slicked-back hair, unsettling eyes, seated with weapons and daggers on the tables.

Perhaps their footsteps were too loud—they drew attention. The man near the door stood, walked over, stared at them, then quietly closed the door.

The officers’ breathing quickened; their hearts pounded. The officer behind even placed his hand on his holster!

These were gangsters—not petty thugs.

They exchanged glances, both seeing the gravity in the other’s eyes. But their orders came from the precinct—they had to proceed, even if they wanted to run.

They had no choice. They kept walking forward.

At the end of the hallway, a door bore the sign “Manager’s Office.” They glanced at each other, then knocked.

“Come in.”

A voice came from inside. The officer took a deep breath, opened the door, and the other followed.

Lans sat behind the desk, watching them enter. He smiled. “How can I help you?”

“Officers?”

The officer closed the door and stood beside it. The other sat across from Lans.

“I’m Officer Ferren from the Harbor Precinct. I have some questions for you. Do you have time?”

Polite—but the politeness had nothing to do with moral virtue.